


you're strange and beautiful and all i know is that i loved you once upon a time

by theworldabouttodawn



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, tumblr prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworldabouttodawn/pseuds/theworldabouttodawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from piyo-13 on tumblr: "prompt: modern au, bard is your typical single father, but thranduil is actually still an elf. a while after meeting, bard begins to notice that his new neighbor (?) appears to be more than he seems... or something ^^;;"</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're strange and beautiful and all i know is that i loved you once upon a time

**Author's Note:**

> oKAY THIS IS LIKE THE SAME AU AS MY DAVEKAT FIC THAT'S SO WEIRD

The first time Bard sees the newcomer, he doesn’t think much of him besides the fact that he has Really Great Hair™. He’s too busy handling Tilda to really pay much attention.

The second time he sees him, Bard’s down in the laundry room of the apartment complex and is most definitely not struggling. (Lies, he totally is. Being a single father with three children obviously has its drawbacks. Huge laundry loads are one of them.) As he attempts to dump a large load into the washing machine, he slips and almost falls, dropping the laundry basket in the process. “Well, that’s embarrassing as fuck,” he mutters.

But suddenly the soft hands of the man with long, straight, white-blond hair are on his own, holding the laundry basket and somehow scooping up the rest of the clothes before placing them in the machine, adding detergent, and turning it on.

Bard’s been standing motionless and silent through this whole process, not sure if the figure before him is actually real, and it isn’t until he hears the rush of water that he finds his voice and begins to speak. Nothing eloquent, of course, just “Why?”

(Later, he’ll curse himself for not being polite at the very least and saying “thank you.”)

He sees an inexplicable flash of hurt in the other’s ice-blue eyes (eyes that pull him in inexorably, eyes he could drown in) but it’s quickly hidden by indifference (so quickly that Bard wonders if he had imagined it) and the other man only says, “You intrigue me, Bard.” And with that, he walks away, leaving Bard in shocked silence, the (somehow familiar) words and voice ringing in his ears.

(It doesn’t occur to Bard until later that night, in the lull of near sleep, that he never told the man his name.)

(He wakes up the next morning with “Thranduil” on his lips and has no idea what it means, besides that his unconscious mind connected it with the handsome stranger in some way. It can be a mysterious thing.) 

* * *

A few days after the incident in the laundry room, Bard discovers that Blondie actually lives right across the hall from him and has a son who happens to be in Bain’s science class. (Bain breaks this news to him when he informs him that “Da, I have to make a model of a cell, my partner is Legolas, he just moved in across the hall, can he come over tomorrow please?”)

So Sigrid, “all kinds of absolutely done with chemistry, Da, this shit is pointless”, jumps at the chance to bake cookies for their new neighbours. They eat about a quarter of the batch because hey, warm cookies, and Bard takes he rest across the hall with Bain.

The door is answered by about six and a half feet of forest green velvet suit, pale, flawless skin, that beautiful hair, and a curious aura of otherworldliness Bard could have sworn wasn’t around in the laundry room. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the sight of Bard and Bain with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. But he says nothing other than “Bard,” a simple word of acknowledgement that somehow sends a not-entirely-unpleasant shiver up his spine.

“Thranduil,” Bard replies instinctively, awkwardly holding out the plate of cookies. (He realises his perhaps-mistake, but doesn’t bother to correct himself.) “Welcome to Rhovanion. I hear our sons are science buddies.”

Nodding slowly, the other man accepts the cookies. “Yes, Legolas has told me all about it.” 

Bain pipes up here, “Can Legolas come over tomorrow after school so we can work on our project?”

“I don’t see why not,” Thranduil (?) replies. “After all, it’s just across the hall.”

“Awesome!” Bain exclaims before running back home, his mission complete, leaving his father to deal with the almost-ethereal creature alone.

 Gently laying the cookies to one side, he turns his gaze on Bard, blue eyes like an icy pond piercing straight into his soul, laying his innermost being open to the leisurely contemplation of the somewhat-not-entirely-human standing before him. (Bard doesn’t know _why_ nor _how_ Thranduil appears so – so _angelic_. Not angelic as in cherubs and the innocent harbingers of peace, though, but angelic as in flaming sword at the garden gate and glorious duel with the devil. Which still doesn’t make any sense.)

Thranduil smiles then, a slow, soft smile that fills Bard with delight and a warmth he does not truly understand. “You should be getting back to your family, Bard. I swear that we will meet again. We always have before.”

With this cryptic statement, he turns away slowly and closes the door, the promise ringing in Bard’s ears. 

* * *

The boys take longer than expected to complete their project the next day – Bard gets home from the garage to find the living room floor covered in markers, construction paper, and scattered notes and the two boys working up a storm in the middle of the colourful carnage. Hanging up his coat and peering in the fridge, he calls out, “Think you boys will be done any time soon?"

“I dunno, Da,” Bain calls back. “We still have – what do we have left to do, Legolas?”

“The mitochondria, the endoplasmic reticula, the nucleus, and the ribosomes,” the other boy rattles off.

Pulling out a jar of tomato sauce from the fridge and a box of ziti from the pantry, Bard responds, “Fifteen minutes until dinner then, boys, and Legolas, you’re welcome to stay. I’ll call your father over too. When is this project due?”

“Friday, I think,” his son responds.

“Well then, you can work on it tomorrow,” Bard says. “Start cleaning up, if you please.”

Once he sets the water in the pot to boil, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and asks Legolas, “What’s your dad’s number?” The boy (so different from Thranduil, and yet eerily similar in their strange _offness_ and _otherworldliness_ ) rattles the number off. Bard punches the number in, saving the number as “Thranduil”, no last name, and calls him.

He picks up on the third ring. “Thranduil Lasgalen speaking,” he clips out, short and crisp.

Setting the phone on speaker, Bard gets to work on the frozen meatballs as he talks. “Hey, Thranduil, this is Bard. The boys still aren’t done with their project, so Legolas can stay over for dinner if he wants. You’re welcome to come too. Pasta. Fifteen minutes.”

There’s silence on the other side of the line, and Bard wonders (almost fears, rather) if Thranduil’s hung up. But then he speaks (his voice smoother than honey, but deep and dark and impossibly alluring), “I’d love to, Bard.”

“Great!” Bard exclaims, much more excited than he has any right to be. “Well, I’ll see you soon, I guess." 

There’s an awkward, pregnant silence, during which he wants to say something, a word or a phrase that’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t figure out what it actually is, and all too soon the phone is dead silent.

So he returns to the pasta. 

* * *

The sense of familiarity Bard feels when he’s around Thranduil grows, as does the strange feelings that something about him is not quite right. That _something_ isn’t uncomfortable, tough, but rather thrilling, surprisingly enough.

When the dishes are cleared, Legolas sent back to the Lasgalens’ apartment, and the sound of Sigrid’s violin drifting out from under her bedroom door, Thranduil turns his full attention on Bard. (He’s good with children, Bard had noted during dinner with some surprise. The Bowman kids, at the very least, seem to love him – he had spent most of dinner telling stories of his father, Oropher, who had been in the army.) “You truly do not remember, do you, Bard?”

Bard shakes his head, unsure as to what Thranduil is getting at. “Remember what?”

“Me. Legolas. Laketown. The Greenwood. Erebor. Dale. Arda.” None of these words serve to joke Bard’s memory – as a matter of fact, they only confuse him further: Laketown was the name of the somewhat-dingy neighbourhood where he grew up, Greenwood (or as the kids he grew up with liked to call it, Mirkwood) was the rich community on the other side of town, Erebor was the once-affluent neighbourhood in the inner city that had all but vacated due to gang violence, and Dale – Dale is the city that they’re in.

So he opens his mouth, intent on expressing his confusion, but the beautiful creature before him lays a pale hand on his and says one word. “Smaug.”

And Bard’s world freezes as memories and images swirl around him in a whirlwind of the forgotten past. He sees he true Laketown, a labyrinth of patchwork woods and dirty water. Dale, the city of bells, the city that he restored to its glory. Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, and the dwarves that returned to bring it back to life. And Greenwood the Great, beautiful and dangerous and utterly intoxicating. Like its king.

Who happens to be sitting right in front of him, eyes wide open and more vulnerable than Bard had ever expected to see him. “Bard,” he whispers, almost hoarsely. “My dragonslayer. Please, tell me you remember me. I could not bear it if I came all this way to find you, only to lose you at the very end.”

In a move that is much more instinct than deliberate, Bard reaches out a shaking hand and tucks a soft strand of silk and starlight behind Thranduil’s ear, fingers ghosting over the delicate point he somehow had known he would find. “Yes,” he responds, voice cracking. I remember.”

Thranduil’s eyes well up, tears glistening amid the icy storm, but before he can say a word, Bard leans across the small table and kisses him, falling into the endless glorious abyss of memories, passion, and _Thranduil_. He feels a wetness on the other man’s (no, elf’s) cheek – tears of joy, he hopes – and raises the hand not connected to Thranduil’s to cup his face, revelling in the soft, smooth skin that he hadn’t remembered he needed until now.

He feels Thranduil gently asking for entrance, tongue running over his own chapped lips, so he opens his mouth and lets his other half in, drawing them closer together and deeper into one another.

They’ve found each other after all this time, and now nothing can break them apart ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> barduil blog over at thranduilsbowman.tumblr.com


End file.
